Pointless Anxiety, Anyone?

Next month, I am supposed to be going on a white water rafting/camping trip for something like four nights, five days, or thereabouts. It will be with Clint and a handful of other people, and I’ve been really looking forward to it the last couple of months. I love rafting, and I love camping, and I even love being with Clint, so what’s not to look forward to?

I’m having a minor melt-down about it right now. My brain is going into over-drive, and my heart starts racing and I break into a cold sweat and I keep on tapping my fingernails on the nearest noisy surface and chewing on my lip.

One of the issues, I think, is that I’ve never been a real big fan of my body. My arms, no matter how skinny or fat I’ve been, have always felt awkward and huge and ugly. My legs, which were nice and tanned once upon a time before I was oh, twelve or so, are painfully, blindingly white and they terrify even ME to look at.

I haven’t got any decent, comfortable, appropriate rafting or camping type clothing. Shorts and tank tops would be fabulous to wear, but…well, we’ve been over the reasons I won’t wear those already. I would be fine, I think, with some light-weight capris and somewhat baggy T-shirts but…I haven’t got any of those.

I have exactly half of a bathing suit.

The bottom half.

I do own clothes, of course. Like, one pair of nice jeans, several pairs of cotton lounge pants, a ton of pajama bottoms, and a single pair of silky pajama shorts. None of which would be real great rafting apparel. Well, the silky shorts would be okay, except that I would look and feel like Petunia Pig or the equivalent in them.

What’s the equivalent of Petunia Pig?

Not the point (What’s pigs got to do, got to do with it…or is that ‘love’? Hmm…).

Another issue is one that only girls will really understand, and so for the sake of the variety of readers that pass through here, we’ll skip on to my issue with sunshine.

The whiteness that puts people’s eyes out, remember. I. Can’t. Get. Tan.

Just on my legs, mind you. My face, neck, arms, and feet absorb sunlight and turn a nice brown color all summer long, but my legs do this obnoxious light-reflecting trick and remain pasty-pale all year. I’ve tried pretty much everything to get them to match my feet and arms, only to discover that no matter how “realistic” a fake tan CAN look….wow, they totally never look realistic.

Last summer, I wasted hours and hours and hours trying to get even the hint of a tan on my legs.

My legs reject color. End of story.

There’s also the problem of what to do with my stupid, stupid hair (as you’ve recently heard about). It’s not that I care so much if it looks exactly like I’ve been camping for a few days, but more that it gets in the way and in my eyes and up my nose and I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!

I do own a hat, though. Which is a zillion times better than the last big trip I went on with NO hat and only a black bandana to cover my bad hair with. When we got the pictures back from that trip, I heard several comments about how I resembled a cancer patient.

Why would somebody take a picture of me like that?!

Possibly the biggest worry I’ve got, and probably the only even semi-legitimate one, is that it will be the first time I’m away from my kiddo for longer than a couple of hours. He’ll be with his grandma, and I know he’ll be fine, but what about ME? What the heck am I going to do, not having to change a single diaper for four whole days? How am I going to survive without E’s happy little babbling noises he makes while he devours a remote control or dismantles my kitchen?

I think that I probably ought to take a deep breath, relax, purchase some good outdoor-type clothing (and tanning lotion…and maybe get liposuction), and try to enjoy the trip.

I can handle that, right?

Coming Soon: A post where I take a look at how sick it is that I feel so terrified of relaxing now that I have a kid (okay, probably not, but I’m not ruling it out).

Women: What Happened?

There’s a little something called “class” that seems to have slowly but surely disappeared. Once upon a time, women didn’t go out in public with their chests and bottoms hanging out of a scrap of material that doesn’t really pass as an actual article of clothing. There used to be a thing called ‘modesty’, a concept that apparently doesn’t have a place in the modern world very often. Women didn’t used to dress like street walkers and behave like wanna-be porn stars and then wonder why their relationships never worked out and men never respected them.

News flash, ladies: If you post pictures all over the internet of your mostly naked body, of you doing body shots at a crazy party, or of you in suggestive poses, it’s highly unlikely that a man is going to have a whole lot of interest in your mind.

Totally weird idea, I know.

I’ve seen women who are in their 40’s and 50’s hanging out at night clubs that are full of 21-year olds, hoping some hot young stud will pick them up. These women are squeezed into strapless dresses or tiny tank-tops and jeans, their hair is a tribute to the ’80s, and their make-up was probably slathered on with something like a butter knife. And this is how they think they’ll find love. Dressing like total trash, getting drunk, and possibly having a roll in the hay with someone young enough to be their son…or worse, their grandson.

News flash: Something isn’t working. I can’t imagine what the problem is, but obviously you’re doing something wrong…

Actually, I haven’t got a problem with middle-aged women going for younger guys. Really, I don’t. At least, not when the women aren’t being disgusting about it.

I’ve seen teenage girls, probably 16 or 17 years old, wandering through the mall dressed in skirts that barely cover anything, let alone their butts, and tube tops or halter tops, cleavage spilling crazily out all over the place. I’ve actually heard a couple of these girls complain that some old man was being a “perve” and checking them out.

News flash: For one thing, any man who is older than about 20 is “old” to you. For another, if you insist on trying to attract the attention of guys, be prepared to attract the attention of every guy, young or old, gross or gorgeous. Either put some clothes on, or quit bitching about it.

Somebody told me fairly recently that I’m too harsh on my own sex (for a brief moment I felt like Elizabeth Bennet, though I refrained from saying so because I try not to act any weirder than absolutely necessary). Well, maybe I am. Maybe I’m too old fashioned, and maybe I think women would be better off wearing trash bags than the things that pass for “clothes” these days. Maybe I think it would be refreshing to see a young woman behaving like a lady, rather than downing beer with a bunch of guys whose intentions are highly questionable. And maybe it would be a nice change if that young woman actually MINDED that the guys she is with have questionable intentions towards her.

Maybe I’m just tired of hearing women say “Chivalry is dead”, when we’re the ones who killed it.

Things That Make Me Go ‘WTF?’

I don’t consider myself to be really naive, and I’m certainly not exactly new to this planet, but I still find plenty of things that  frequently make me mentally pause and go, “What the…?!”

Here’s a handful of those things:

-Low-rise jeans. The girl I sat behind in my freshman science class wore these disgusting pants every single day, and unfortunately, I am able to tell you with certainty that she did not change her G-string that often. Please, please, somebody, anybody, explain to me what the appeal is of having your crack peeking out at the world all day long? Are there any decent human beings who find this attractive? Can the wearers of low-rises not see their muffin-tops?

-Russell Brand. Ok, I get it, he’s kind of cute in that goofy, “my-mustache-looks-like-it’s-going-up-my-nose” sort of way. And sure, he’s funny. I mean, I liked him in Arthur (minus the disappearing-into-the-nostrils-mustache). Even so, every time I see one of his movies (which is often, because my husband’s new favorite movie is Get Him to the Greek), I honestly wonder, WTF?

-Karaoke. Not everybody in the bar is as three sheets to the wind as you are. PUT THE MICROPHONE DOWN. And no, seriously, you do not sound like Johnny Cash, Barry Manilow, Kelly Clarkson, or Reba. Your friends are lying to you. Shhh, it’s ok, go home and sleep it off. Tomorrow it will just be another embarrassing memory that you claim you have zero recollection of in order to save face.

-Designer baby clothes. According to the pediatrician, my son is not a freak, and he grows out of his clothes faster than I can say “Peek-a-boo”. I imagine all babies do this. I therefore cannot wrap my mind around why some parents insist on spending the money for name-brand infant attire. Are they worried the other babies will laugh at their child for wearing a $3.00 onesie? I suppose that’s a legitimate fear…six-month old kids can be so cruel.

-Animal hoarders. Ever heard a news story about some person who has died and left behind something like 200 cats? Isn’t that so disgusting and horrible? What I don’t get is how those people can’t see the spreading diseases, or smell the stench, or at some point stop and realize, “You know, 30 cats is probably more than enough to have in the house…I should stop collecting them now.” Gross, creepy, and far worse than just doing the humane thing and having the sick ones euthanized.

-25-year-old 15-year-olds. You’ve seen them…the teenage girls who constantly dress like they’re super-sophisticated, carrying their designer purses, their tiny cell phones, driving a fancy car, walking around with an un-natural level of confidence. And of course, they already know everything about sex that only a married woman should know (and possibly more than some married women). Wouldn’t it be so weird if teenagers dressed and behaved like teenagers, instead of Paris Hilton?

And now for something completely different (and just to make my readers go ‘WTF’)…

“If you love a balloon, set it free. If it comes back, it wasn’t a balloon.”–One of my favorite, goofy friends.

Wise words.

A Winter Project

I’ve decided that it’s time for me to make a decision…and what better way to begin deciding something than with a decision to decide?

Convoluted sentences aside, I’m actually quite serious about this: losing the baby weight.

Before I found out that I was pregnant, I was in the process of slimming down. It was super easy at the time, what with my job being more like a five-hour work-out than anything else (cleaning hotel rooms within a certain time limit, it was like running a marathon), and forgetting to eat regularly. I managed to lose 30 pounds that way, but I can’t imagine it was particularly healthy, considering that when I DID eat, I was usually grabbing something for dinner from McDonald’s or popping a frozen pizza in the oven.

These days, I don’t eat fast food. That’s a good start on my project, but it’s not working the wonders that I’d like for it to work; I gained back 25 of the 30 pounds I’d lost before Baby while I was pregnant with Baby, and once I’d had Baby, I dropped a little more than 30 pounds almost instantaneously. Talk about feeling really good!

But alas, I was getting no exercise (other than lifting my kiddo frequently…in fact, I’ve probably got more muscle in my arms than I’ve ever had in my life), and I was eating three meals a day. And not necessarily good meals, either…once again, I fell into the trap of Easy Food. Boxed junk, pasta, frozen pizzas galore.

I gained back the stinking 30 pounds I’ve been playing Tag with for the last two years.

And my skinny jeans, the ones I could have worn home from the hospital if I hadn’t just had a C-section, are all sitting in the dresser and talking bad about me now.

In fact, I had to purchase a new pair of jeans just the other day, in order to be able to wear a pair of jeans at all.

And this, friends, SUCKS.

Over the last couple of months, I’ve been eating better; more home-cooked, made-from-scratch meals, far less sugar (which is a pretty big accomplishment, considering that I was born with not just A sweet tooth, but a whole mouthful of the damn things…ok, not literally, but you get the point), and a lot more vegetables to go with those meals.

But still no exercise.

I have about a zillion excuses for this, too- we live in a rural area where there are zero sidewalks present for me to walk on, and it’s hard to take the baby with me in his stroller and push him over gravel roads, blah blah blah…

It’s cold.

It’s hunting season (actually, I think the hunters have mostly all gone away at this point) and I don’t want to get shot or run over.

I don’t want people to see me exercising.

There’s more, but I won’t toy with your patience.

But today, I’m kicking those excuses out the door. I’m not going to mess around with this getting healthy business anymore; I’m going to do something.

I’m also going to hang my skinny jeans up in a place where I’ll be forced to see them several times a day, and by dammit, I’m going to fit into them again by spring.

That’s all, folks.

Be A Lady

From as far back as I can remember, I’ve had it pounded into my head that I should “be a lady”. Having been born a girl, and being a girl to this day (in this day and age, I feel that this is actually something of an achievement), I never really could wrap my mind around why it was necessary for my mother and grandmother to so persistently demand that I be something that I was fairly certain I already was.

You know, a lady. A girl. A girly-girl, at that.

As a child, I was told frequently that things like farting and burping were disgusting, unlady-like habits (I’m not sure at all that bodily functions should be considered as ‘habits’- and I’m even less sure that they can be avoided at all times, particularly when broccoli or beans or soda has been consumed). “If you must…’poot’…” my mother would tell me, “then you ought to do it in the bathroom. And try to be quiet about it.”

This alone caused me more grief during my school years than I care to dredge up in my memory bank. Just imagine the morning after having been fed a casserole containing broccoli and cauliflower and huge amounts of cheese, and trying to sit still in the first class of the day while the entire room is in utter silence, students bent over the papers on their desks, answering difficult questions on a pop quiz. Furthermore, imagine that the teacher of that class, who has so kindly sprung a test upon you at an ungodly hour of the morning, is as difficult to get a hall pass out of as it was for anyone but Arthur to pull the sword from the stone.

But no matter; I lived to tell the tale, and to recall plenty of other “lady lessons”.

Apart from the unhealthy suppressing of natural bodily functions, I was also constantly instructed on how to dress properly.

Apparently, a lady should not wear her bathing suit and a pair of jeans to take a walk with her friends.

Nor is it appropriate for her to wear shirts with holes all through them, socks that don’t match, pants with grass stains (I have yet to figure out if it is the fact that the pants are dirty, or if it is the way the grass stains were obtained that is objectionable), or hair accessories that clash with the rest of the outfit.

As far as my lessons have taught me, women are supposed to wear women’s clothes, unless said woman is dating a man who owns a fantastically comfortable jacket or shirt, in which case, it would be considered strange if the woman did not at least make an attempt to abscond with said items of men’s apparel.

A real lady bathes often and wears a bath robe (and not a short silky one either, but a thick, fuzzy, preferably pink one that covers the ankles) when traveling between bathroom and bedroom, and if there is nothing beneath the robe, under NO circumstances should a lady interact with another human being, even if the only other human in the house is her husband.

Or maybe particularly then.

A lady doesn’t swear, and she doesn’t spit, and she should not be witness to men performing these tricks either. In fact, if a man swears or spits in front of her, she ought to become extremely embarrassed and offended and remove herself from the vicinity immediately.

Because cussing and spitting is contageous, obviously.

A lady doesn’t complain- she bears burdens and annoyances and bad weather and roudy children and pushy in-laws with the utmost grace; she is allowed only brief moments of letting off steam when she is on the phone with a sister or friend, and even then, she must end her ranting and raving with something like, “It’s really not all that bad, I suppose. It could be worse.”

And then she puts the cap back on the bottle of frustration and gets a little overly aggressive while kneading dough or stirring whatever is on the stove.

A lady never gets so drunk she can’t remember her own name.

Unless she’s drinking wine.

Having put into practice the lessons I’ve learned over my lifetime, I’ve found two things to be true:

1. Men absolutely do notice when a girl behaves in a lady-like fashion.
2. Behaving in a lady-like fashion is completely unfashionable.

I don’t follow all those “rules” all the time the way perhaps my grandmother had hoped I would. I’m not as prim and proper as sometimes I think I’d like to be, and I have no qualms about swearing if I stub my toe or spill my coffee or wreck the car. If I ever have a daughter, I doubt I’ll foist so many restrictions on her, but it certainly will come in handy to at least know a few things about being lady-like if ever I have a reason to teach someone else.

I might not be as much of a ‘lady’ as my mother, and she probably not as much so as her mother before her, but I’d like to think I’m not a complete disappointment to them.